


Flip

by WetSammyWinchester



Series: Squirm verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Episode: s14e09 The Spear, Grace Feeding, Implied Relationships, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Winchester Has Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: When the attack against Michael in Kansas City goes wrong, Sam ends up as the archangel’s hostage and his latest experiment.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Squirm verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728097
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87
Collections: King of Hell Sam Winchester's Birthday Promptfic* Extravaganza!





	Flip

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [WetSammyWinchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester) in the [Antichristmas_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Antichristmas_2020) collection. 



> Written for the 2020 Antichrist-mas challenge and prompt “Michael!Dean captures Sam and conducts the same experiments he did with all those vamps and werewolves. Like those enhanced monsters, the grace triggers Sam's powers in unexpected ways.” Thanks to zmediaoutlet for tossing around ideas with me and to monicawoe for the quick beta and support!
> 
> This can be read as a sequel to [Squirm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112476) or can be read as a stand-alone fic as well. One of my inspirations for this was [this delicious non-con, NSFW art by maliceperilous](https://maliceperilous.tumblr.com/post/185281004823/michaeldean-poor-poor-sam).

Sam’s ears popped painfully as Michael teleported them once more. One ear kept ringing. When he touched it, his fingers came away bloody. 

If all he had was a broken eardrum and some bruised knees after spending the last two days with an archangel, he should consider himself lucky. Not so lucky, he reminded himself bitterly, but terrified and sleep-deprived as Michael dragged him from place to place.

Ever since Michael broke the spear in Kansas City and reclaimed Dean as his vessel, Sam had been his hostage. The archangel had shuttled Cas and Jack off to parts unknown to be pawns in his endgame, but Sam was bound to his side to keep Dean in line. 

“Back to the drawing board,” Michael said. He released his grip on Sam’s shoulder and Sam wobbled forward. Michael briskly removed his hat and suit jacket, folding it neatly and placing it on the side of a dusty altar table. A broken Jesus missing his crown and his left arm looked sternly down on them from his cross. 

As Sam regained his balance, the smell hit him. Fetid decay like a hundred open graves filled his nose and throat. He wanted to gag but kept quiet, holding a hand over his mouth and nose. Only death smelled like that. His eyes roamed the shadowed walls and corners of the church looking for its source. What he thought was pews and furniture scattered along the sides of the sanctuary took form as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Corpses stacked indifferently, a jumble of arms and legs, torsos and heads, thrown into piles like yesterday’s trash. None of the bodies appeared to be human. Most were werewolves in various stages of their change between human and monster. Some features looked familiar but others had the elongated razor teeth he had seen on Michael’s monsters in Kansas City. One of the bodies on the pile had odd features as if its nose and mouth were melting off its face—a shifter Sam would guess. Another body further down looked like a woman with her pale arm outstretched and a thin, sharp horn jutting from her wrist—a wraith. Dozens and dozens of dead monsters.

Standing at the altar, Michael tied on a leather butcher’s apron and took stock of his tools and supplies including a bronze bowl. A mildewed altar cloth hung down the front of the table, patches of its green and gold embroidery made Sam think it was likely Catholic but the crumbling stone walls and rotting wooden beams gave him no clue where they were.

“A church?” Sam wondered out loud. Michael’s need to talk might provide him the clues he needed. 

“Of course, a church,” Michael said. “This was my father’s house which makes it _my_ house now.” 

He turned around, his attention refocused on Sam. Just as Michael enjoyed dressing Dean in three-piece suits, he treated Sam like his favorite doll. No more plaid and denim—instead Sam wore tailored dress shirts and the finest wool pants. Michael smiled as he crossed back over and Sam recognized the look but could do nothing to stop what was coming. Michael brushed a few strands of hair away from Sam’s face and then tangled his fingers in the length of it to yank Sam’s head back. “You know what to do,” Michael said, and Sam dropped to his knees on the hard stone. Dust billowed up, the motes catching the last of the setting sun through a broken stained glass window. He couldn’t turn or twist his head and his only view was of Michael’s face—Dean’s face. He searched those familiar features, looking for a glimmer of emotion, another slip of the facade, even a blink of his eyelashes that would show Sam that Dean was still there but there was nothing. Dean’s body was right there, touching his, and yet Sam had never felt so lonely. 

“Even when you try to be good,” Michael said, “you can’t. So much like my little brother.” Michael smirked as Sam tried to pull away. “I loved Lucifer. But you? Not so much.” Michael shoved Sam away, sending him sprawling face-first on the floor and returned to his work.

Sam tried to deep breathe as he pulled himself up and ignore the cloying smell of decay and dust. He needed to come up with a plan and stow the panic. But looking around the sanctuary, all he could see was death. Sam hunted creatures like these but he realized that they were just as much as victims, forced to change into something they weren’t. If Michael won this war and started his apocalypse, human and monster alike would burn. 

“Back to the drawing board?” Sam repeated back Michael’s words, swallowing down his fear and anger to sound curious. Lucky for him, Michael liked to talk.

Michael continued to add herbs to the bronze bowl in front of him, crushing the ingredients before setting the pestle to the side. He waved at the ruin of dead monsters. “Mistakes were made with these but I have an idea and you’re going to help. Please have a seat.”

A large, ornate wooden bishop’s chair slid across the stone floor driven by Michael’s power towards Sam who threw up his hands to shield himself. It shuddered to a stop a few inches away from his knees and he used the chair’s arm to pull himself to his feet. He briefly considered running but knew he wouldn’t make it past the door.

“Sit,” Michael commanded. With his power, he forced Sam’s body onto the rotted seat and held him there, pressing the knobs of his spine painfully against the carved wooden back. 

“As I was saying, I’ve been inspired.” Michael was cheerful now that Sam was contained, pinned like a bug on a board. He picked through the implements lined up in front of him and selected a slim scalpel. “These creatures were pure in their ferocity but too primitive at their core,” he said. “Now, the ones that I released are dying as well.”

That’s why Kansas City wasn’t burning to the ground with monsters running unchecked in the streets. Michael’s army was self-destructing. Sam breathed out, letting the good news flood in like a wave over his brewing anger.

“Primitive,” Michael continued. “Like turning tin and copper into bronze. Easily bent or broken. What I really want is to forge diamonds.” 

He tucked the scalpel in an apron pocket and picked up a small glass pitcher filled with a gold liquid that Sam couldn’t identify. A reddish-gold glow lit up Michael’s face as he carefully poured it into the bowl. The contents ignited into flame and Michael spoke a few words of Enochian over it. With Michael absorbed in the chant, Sam tried to wiggle free from his hold, but couldn’t move his arms or legs more than a few scant millimeters.

“Humans are flawed,” Michael mused after he was done with the incantation, “but at least they are made in my father’s own image. The best clay to mold the best soldiers.” 

The scalpel now dangled from Michael’s fingertips as he walked to stand over Sam. He pressed his free hand against Sam’s dress shirt and Sam’s clothes vanished, leaving him naked and shivering in the cold air of the church. Despite feeling even more vulnerable and fighting the urge to hide, Sam kept his eyes on the knife in Michael’s hand.

“My father made one mistake: free will. Obedience is the key,” Michael said. Sam tried to squirm away as Michael brought the blade to his naked thigh but Michael was quick and the blade was sharp. He was halfway through carving a sigil into Sam’s flesh before the pain hit. Sam bit his lip, unwilling to make a noise as Michael focused on cutting the more intricate details of the symbol while Sam’s blood ran off the sides to pool underneath him on the chair. “There,” Michael said, appreciating his work as he wiped the blade against his leather apron.

Sam blew out his breath when Michael walked back to the altar and laid the scalpel neatly among the other tools. He recognized the sigil on his leg as Enochian for obedience, duty, deference. He banged his head against the back of the chair—he should have seen this coming. Angels liked their marks: their ribs still bore the sigils from Cas and Dean carried the Mark of Cain for months. Watching Michael still working at the altar, Sam realized that the sigil was only the first step.

The archangel braced his hands on either side of the bronze bowl and his head bobbed up and down, jaws stretched wide, like a python swallowing down its prey. But instead of a meal being swallowed, a ball of glowing grace worked its way up Michael’s throat and was expelled into the air. The grace hung above the altar, a living thing that swirled and twisted its way down to the bowl in Michael’s hands, where it ran over the other ingredients like molten lava, infusing them with its glow.

“What better subject for this experiment than my brother’s old vessel?” Michael said with a cheerful smile on his face. As he approached, the undulating glow in the bowl threw shadows across Michael’s face, making him look more like the monster he was and less like Sam’s brother. 

The horror of what was going to happen hit Sam - the kind of forced transformation as the monsters who died. If he didn’t figure out something right now, both he and Dean would be lost and Michael would be free to destroy the world. 

Sam clamped his mouth shut and squirmed against the back of the chair, still unable to move his body.

Michael shushed Sam like a child and his fingers wrapped around the back of Sam’s neck. His thumb gently rubbed along Sam’s Adam’s apple and continued. “This won’t kill you. It will make you strong, a good soldier in my army. I shall enjoy doing what Lucifer could not—making you and your brother, the perfect vessels, obedient to my needs.” Michael moved his fingers from Sam’s neck to hook them around his jaw and tilt his head up like an officiant being forced to take communion. 

Sam averted his eyes from the roiling bowl of grace in front of him to look into the green eyes of his brother. “Dean, please wake up.”

The wrinkles around Michael’s eyes softened and his eyes shone with a moment of confusion and then the moment was gone. Michael grinned like a shark and forced his thumb between Sam’s closed lips, prying his teeth apart. Sam tried to shout but Michael’s thumb pressed his tongue down. Michael tilted the bowl and poured the liquid into Sam’s mouth. There was too much and some of it dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. He tried to spit it out but Michael held his jaw in place. 

“Swallow,” Michael coaxed. The obedience sigil did its work and Sam closed his lips and swallowed it down.

The blue liquid looked cool but was hot on his tongue, stinging like a mouthful of ghost peppers as it moved down his throat. Sam gasped for air after the first mouthful and then Michael poured the rest down, covering Sam’s lips with his hand once the bowl was empty. The archangel’s eyes glittered as he watched for a reaction and Sam did his best to give him nothing in return, even as the liquid burned his gut and suffused his rib cage and lungs with heat. 

Michael patted his cheek fondly. “Strong and stubborn, just like Lucifer. You’ll survive.”

The heat traveled out along Sam’s spine and nerves and back to his core, and he felt a mix of intense relaxation and sharp pain that wound itself around his bones like a live wire. He gasped again when the wave hit his brain and he wondered if this was the kind of extreme high that happens before an overdose. All that time drinking demon blood and he never got a rush like this. That blood high was dirty compared to this like Ruby was a corner meth dealer pushing dime-bags compared to Michael’s designer hit of transforming grace. 

As Sam moaned in pain and surprise, Michael dropped his jaw. Sam’s head drooped to his chest and his mind expanded and raced along pathways he didn’t know were there. Thoughts and ideas tried to grab hold of him but he was like a bullet cutting through them all, exhaustingly fast. _Like switches being flipped_ , he thought, latching onto a memory of Ava’s face at Cold Oak. An unexpected giggle came out of his mouth because she would have leaned into this transformation eagerly.

Distant words were being exchanged in the room and Sam looked up to find a werewolf had entered the church and was speaking with Michael. It was one of Michael’s new breed with an ugly mouth full of bristle-teeth. Sam wanted to look away but found himself laughing deliriously again.

“Those teeth—they’re ridiculous,” he slurred, and the werewolf growled at him. Between the pain and the bliss and his wavering eyesight, it looked like a cartoon character which made Sam laugh even more. Michael waved off the were and whatever news it had brought and turned to study Sam’s transformation with an appraising look.

“Doesn’t he care?” Sam said, watching the were’s back as he left the church. The giggling high of a moment ago was now moderating, less of a bullet ride and more of a flat plane of calm existence stretching out to the horizon.

Michael tilted his head. “Care about what?”

“That you killed his brothers and sisters?” Sam said and waved at the corpses around them. The free motion of his arm caught him by surprise and he waved both hands in front of his face, realizing he was no longer held down by Michael’s power. 

“Stand up,” Michael said. Sam did as if pulled up by strings. He looked down at Michael just as he would have looked down at Dean, four inches of difference between them. Rather than shuffle his stance to equalize to his brother, he straightened his shoulders to his full height. Sam flexed his hands, flexed the power he felt building inside, and a shower of blue sparks flicked from his fingertips, sending a hum of electricity up his arms. Michael’s magic had settled in, its power absorbed into Sam’s muscles and bones. His thoughts were no longer weaving drunkenly but heightened and clear. 

_Switches have been flipped_ , he thought again. His smile felt brittle as he looked down at the archangel. 

Michael examined Sam’s face and naked body with the delight of a child with a new toy. “I wondered if the demon blood would interfere but it works. Your vessel has been conditioned from birth to contain power like this. Yes, you’ll be fine.”

“More than fine,” Sam said.

“Be quiet,” Michael said, and Sam stopped speaking.

The compulsion to respond to Michael’s specific commands was strong but there was freedom and strength in Sam’s movements now. With his heightened senses, Sam’s broken eardrum thumped painfully. As Michael droned about his plan to scrub the world clean of humanity, Sam touched the shell of his ear and the delicate membrane inside remade itself and the pain vanished.

Michael was now talking about how Jack would help them move between all of his father’s worlds. Sam dropped his fingers down to play with the ragged skin of the carved sigil. He waited patiently until Michael looked back over at him again before he healed the skin there, deeply satisfied by the surprise on the archangel’s face.

“Stop that.”

Sam considered Michael’s command and examined his reaction to comply but the sigil to obey was already altered. Its meaning was distorted and the compulsion was gone. With a simple thought and the touch of his finger, Sam healed the scar, leaving his skin golden and untouched. 

But Michael was full of surprises as well. Sam expected a tornado of rage at the disobedience; instead, the archangel laughed. The sound rose up to disappear into the broken stone and beams of the old church.

“Do you think I need that to keep you in place?” Michael said, confident as always. “The sigil was just a seal on your envelope, a reminder for you of who you belong to now. You won’t do anything but follow my orders, not with Dean inside me.”

At the mention of Dean, Sam’s powers sizzled hot and blue sparks showered off his fingertips onto the ground. Unlike his old self, the Sam who emerged from the Trials and Darkness, the man who moved cautiously, thought through all the options, consulted and researched the lore, this Sam was going to take what he wanted. And what he wanted right now was his brother.

Sam held his hand up and watched the power inside him spark along his skin and course down his fingertips. He held his palm out and stretched his fingers at Michael; a sense of deja vu came over him only with Alastair’s smug face in place of Michael. Alastair was one of the most powerful demons and Sam had defeated him on demon blood. His new powers, fueled by grace instead of blood, weren’t temporary. They had transformed him into a new being. Beyond the blue haze of Sam’s outstretched hand, Michael’s smugness morphed into concern at Sam’s continued smile.

“You will obey,” Michael said, “or I will crush your brother.”

The command and Michael’s power washed over Sam like a spring shower but the power to control him was gone.

“No,” Sam said, “you won’t.” As he focused, he tilted his head and looked down his nose at the archangel in front of him. He spent years at the mercy of angels, terrified and alone. Now, he pushed back with his power. The bolt of energy didn’t hit Michael so much as lift him up off his feet to dangle in the air. “You’ll be the one who is crushed.”

Calm flooded Sam’s mind, crowding out the anger and fear that had occupied the dark corners of his mind over the past eleven years. He didn’t know if Michael’s transformation had backfired because Sam was bred to be the perfect vessel or because of the demon blood he consumed or that residual grace from two other angels possessing him elevated the effects. In the end, it didn’t matter. Sam stepped into a role he had been fighting for eleven years—powerful, merciless, and very much in control.

Michael snarled and kicked out his feet as Sam walked around him, studying the angel in the same way he had been studied. Sam could sense Dean’s soul inside, a bright white light entwined and held immobile by Michael’s parasitic grace. The archangel was no different than a weed to be pulled, so Sam grabbed on, digging his mental fingers in, wiggling Michael’s presence from side to side to loosen it, making sure that none of the roots would be left behind inside his brother. Yanking the grace out was not that different from when he used to pull demons back in the day with Ruby so he had a lot of practice. Michael’s grip on Dean shifted, releasing a bit in surprise at Sam’s strength, and then burrowing back in hard. 

Sam gripped the slippery hide of Michael’s grace tighter, careful of Dean’s warm fragility underneath, and squeezed hard. At first, nothing happened. Then Michael started to cough and his grace escaped into the exposed beams and rafters of the sanctuary ceiling.

“Not so fast,” Sam said, eyes on the fleeing serpent of grace that circled above as Dean’s body slumped to the ground. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He held his hands out, cupping them together, and reached out with his thoughts to gather Michael’s grace. Michael didn’t go easily, wisps swirling away only to be caught and pulled down into Sam’s hands. The angel battered at the cage of Sam’s fingers, but Sam rolled and squeezed the grace like a potter with their clay. _The best clay_ as Michael said, only it was angels and not humans that Sam would reform under his own control. He compacted the grace into a smaller ball, more brilliant than before. He compacted it again, feeling something inside the ball crunch this time. No more wisps trying to escape and no more fight as he held it on his open palm. It was now the size of a jawbreaker and as blue as the finest sapphire. Sam knew that he could crush it to dust. Instead, he placed it on his tongue and felt that familiar ghost pepper burn for a moment before he swallowed it down.

A low moan brought Sam back to this reality. Dean was gasping and trying to roll up on his side and failing. Sam dropped to his knees and pulled Dean’s head up to rest on his thighs. He held Dean’s shoulders as he coughed like a man whose intubation tube had just been pulled

“Just take it slow,” Sam said.

Dean blinked his eyes and then focused on Sam’s face above him. “Sammy, you okay? Did he—” Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist weakly, resting his cold palm against Sam’s charged skin. “We should get out of here before Michael comes back.”

“He won’t be back,” Sam said. Even to his own ears, his voice was different, smooth and in command, but he couldn’t be concerned about that. Instead, he glanced up at the ceiling beams where moments before the most powerful archangel had been. Now, there were only dust motes and a few incandescent fireflies. 

Dean was restless under Sam’s hands; he was never one to relax when there were unanswered questions. “What happened?” he asked. Dean pushed up onto his knees so that he was eye to eye with Sam, looking over his lack of clothes and the remains of the carved sigil on Sam’s thigh. “How did you—”

Dean’s concern rolled off of him, soaking Sam with unspoken questions and love and worry. Sam closed his eyes so that he could better feel the warmth of Dean’s soul and hold it against the cold core forming inside him. Every moment, he grew more immovable and unbreakable—the diamond that Michael wanted to forge—and there would be no going back.

The ripe smell of decaying bodies roused him again. When he opened his eyes, he knew they were glowing by the way Dean startled back and how his brother’s feelings of concern were now salted with fear. Sam smiled to reassure him in some small way and with a wave of his hand, the dead monsters that surrounded them were gone.

“Sammy? What happened to you? Did Michael—?” Fear blossomed in Dean and Sam with his new powers could read every unspoken question Dean had. Many of those concerns had lurked in the dark corners of Dean’s mind, planted there by John and taking root years before when they were different people. Sam could see how Dean had tried to prune these fears back over time but he never succeeded at eliminating them completely. 

Sam could help with that.

He lifted two fingers to Dean’s forehead and his brother cringed away, his eyes wide with panic, so Sam cupped the back of Dean’s head bringing him closer as he pressed the fingers against Dean’s skin. Energy flowed from Sam through Dean’s skull and into the soft matter of his brain. Sam transformed the grey of Dean’s worry and guilt and shaped it into peace of mind. It’s the least that Sam could do for his brother.

Also buried inside were the memories of Dean’s possession, lying just beyond what Dean could comprehend right now. Those painful images would come back to Dean at some point. Sam could erase these for Dean with a single thought and wipe the slate clean of everything that had happened the past two days. Sam toyed with the idea—it would be easy enough—but then decided that he wouldn’t take that from his brother. Good or bad, their experiences made them stronger. 

Dean rocked on his knees when Sam released him. Dean looked confused but the darkness and fear were gone and Sam smiled down at him. His mind quickly drifted away from his brother and this church to find the closest town. He was restless, the power inside of him building again, looking for an outlet. A few miles away in Blooming Grove, New York, eighteen thousand souls were calling to him with their own worries and concerns, and in their midst, a nest of vamps squatted in an empty house. 

I’m hungry, he thought. Hungry to help, hungry to hunt, and I need to feed.

“What happens now?” Dean said, bringing Sam’s attention back to their situation. “Other than finding you some clothes.” 

Sam looked down at himself, unconcerned about being naked, but Dean needed to be reassured. He flicked his fingers and a familiar plaid shirt and pair of jeans materialized on him as Sam stood up.

“We should find Cas and Jack,” Dean said. “Maybe they know how to fix this. Get you back to normal.”

“Fix?” Sam said, “Why would I want to be fixed?”

Sam rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder and with a crackle of electricity, they both disappeared into the night.


End file.
